


We go together like a pocket and money

by clottedcreamfudge



Series: Tooth-rotting Malec nonsense [8]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Art, Con Artists, Conman Magnus Bane, Crimes & Criminals, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff with bite, Forgery, I Don't Even Know, I love this so much and I'm not sorry, It's all about the con, Kissing, Lies, M/M, Philanthropy, Rich Alec Lightwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29660871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clottedcreamfudge/pseuds/clottedcreamfudge
Summary: “You must be Mr Bane,” the stranger says pleasantly, extending a hand towards Magnus to shake. Magnus takes it on autopilot - then, because he’s a professional, he forces his brain and voice box to work together for just a few moments.“The very same. And you are?”“Alec Lightwood.” Fuck, Magnus thinks wildly. Fuck. He’d really been hoping the man wouldn’t say that.
Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Series: Tooth-rotting Malec nonsense [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2170269
Comments: 74
Kudos: 239





	We go together like a pocket and money

**Author's Note:**

> Explanatory notes and recommended listening at the end of the fic.

Magnus is very good at what he does. He’s a well-respected, top industry professional; he’s had plenty of people fly him business class halfway across the globe just to have his expertise on an artefact or priceless object. He has charmed his way out of speeding tickets, into people’s beds, and - on one memorable occasion - onto an all-expenses paid luxury cruise round the Mediterranean. He could have paid for it, of course, but there’s something to be said for the thrill of spending someone else’s money.

What Magnus _also_ is, is a bit of a charlatan. A fraud. A sublimely good trickster, with a wealth of experience and enough practice at being one to get out of almost any difficult situation his line of work throws at him.

So, when he’s hired by Mr Lightwood, a recluse harbouring _exactly_ the kind of foolishness and affluence Magnus loves to dupe, he doesn’t foresee any issues. It’s a simple enough commission: bid for a priceless work of art as Mr Lightwood’s proxy, confirm its authenticity, and accompany said artwork to the Lightwood estate in order to oversee its installation in precisely the right conditions to ensure its care and longevity.

 _That_ part is easy. The hard part is everything leading _up_ to the bidding.

“Raphael, this is impeccable,” Magnus says honestly, eyes skimming the painting as he moves to view it from every possible angle. “Some of your best work. And on such a tight deadline as well!” Magnus has literally made it his business to know the difference between reality and forgery, and he’s still fairly certain that the majority of his peers would be completely incapable of recognising this piece as a fake. Raphael is terrible with people and astonishingly gifted with a paintbrush - or in fact any other artistic medium you’d care to place in his hands.

“You say that every time,” Raphael says with a deeply beleaguered sigh, “and every time I have to remind you that flattery won’t get you a discount.” Magnus waves a hand at him.

“I wouldn’t dream of underpaying for such craftsmanship.”

“I imagine you dream of underpaying for most things,” Raphael counters, and he is of course absolutely correct. Magnus hasn’t paid full price for almost anything since the early 90s, when he first discovered yard sales. The things he haggles over nowadays are a little less paltry.

“It’s perfect,” Magnus says definitively, stretching his hand out to Raphael for a brief but firm handshake. “Swiss or Dutch bank account on this occasion?”

“Swiss,” Raphael says with a nod. “Things are still a little uncomfortable in the Netherlands after the state aid debacle.”

“So rude of governments to expect their taxes paid when and where they expect them to be,” Magnus says drily, and Raphael raises his eyebrows.

“And how,” he remarks, not an ounce of feeling in his voice. Magnus knows he’s laughing on the inside. Probably.

His business with Raphael concluded, Magnus enlists the help of various of his other nefarious contacts to ensure that _this_ painting - rather than the much pricier original - will be brought out and shown for auction two days from now. It is quite incredible who can be bought, and for how relatively small a sum. The real painting will go on to be sold at a more _selective_ private auction, run by the charitable arm of Magnus’s modest empire, and the majority of the proceeds will go towards anti-trafficking efforts across the US.

Of course, Magnus takes his share - he’s not a saint - but the thrill he gets from screwing over rich assholes and making the world just that little bit better simply cannot be bought. He’s fairly certain that whoever’s totting up afterlife points scores is having some trouble with him.

When the day arrives, Magnus does his duty as a faithful proxy for Mr Lightwood; he secures the painting, then confirms its authenticity when he is called upon to do so. He has a brief moment of agonising panic when it becomes apparent that his employer has sent someone to provide a second opinion, but Magnus needn’t have worried; they seem competent enough, but Raphael is better.

“Are two accounts to be enough for Mr Lightwood?” Magnus asks the man drily as he steps back from the painting. “Or are there more of you yet to come? Not that I don’t appreciate thoroughness, of course, but I wasn’t hired to stand here and look pretty.” The guy - Raj - rolls his eyes and gives Magnus a withering look. This means absolutely nothing to him, of course, given that Magnus practically _invented_ that look, and Raj isn’t even doing it particularly _well._

“Mr Lightwood is spending a lot of money on this painting,” Raj says snottily. “I’m sure you understand his concerns.” Magnus smiles at him, all teeth, and watches as something in Raj shifts and falters slightly; he has perhaps realised that the tank in which he is swimming may contain sharks.

“Entirely,” he says smoothly.

Thankfully, Magnus’s contract precludes the possibility of this arrogant stranger travelling with him to the Lightwood estate, so he’s left alone for the journey. The painting is very carefully prepared for transport, and Magnus oversees the entire process from protective wrapping to loading, Ragnor grumbling faithfully by his side the entire time.

“I’m not sure this requires two sets of eyes,” he complains, but given that he enjoys roaring at people who lay so much as an errant finger on a gilded frame, Magnus knows it’s nothing more than hot air. Once Magnus is in the passenger seat of the van, he breathes a little easier, though the adrenaline doesn’t so much dissipate as wait quietly in his bones for the next obstacle. His preferred driver, Elias, puts on some kind of smooth jazz that is, while not entirely Magnus’s idea of a good time, apparently necessary for him to drive as well as he does; Magnus doesn’t understand it, but everyone has their quirks. Some people have lucky underwear - Elias has Ella Fitzgerald.

It takes a little over an hour to get to the Lightwood estate, and Magnus has to admit he’s impressed with the place when they arrive. It’s a little old money for his tastes, but it does an excellent job of reminding him exactly why he’s defrauding the blue-blooded bastard; nobody in the 21st century could possibly have a need for _turrets_.

When they reach the top of the immense driveway, Magnus descends from the front seat with a grace befitting his pay check and goes immediately to the back of the van to check on their cargo. Magnus is unsurprised to see that it is in precisely the position they left it, having been securely strapped in for the duration; no matter what Magnus may think about smooth jazz, apparently it does the job. 

He hears the crunching of gravel from behind the open doors and takes a step back to greet the newcomer-

And the unthinkable happens.

“You must be Mr Bane,” the stranger says pleasantly, extending a hand towards Magnus to shake. Magnus takes it on autopilot - then, because he’s a professional, he forces his brain and voice box to work together for just a few moments.

“The very same. And you are?”

“Alec Lightwood.” _Fuck_ , Magnus thinks wildly. _Fuck._ He’d really been hoping the man wouldn’t say that.

The problem is that Alec Lightwood is roughly six-foot-three-inches of _astonishingly beautiful man_ , and Magnus is honestly struggling to deal with it. It’s not as though he’s never seen a beautiful man before - he’s had a significant number of them in his bed, in fact - but right now he’s almost certain that every single one of his past conquests pale in comparison to the man standing before him. Alec is all wild dark hair and warm hazel eyes as he greets Magnus, his frankly _obscene_ mouth pulled up slightly at the corners in a welcoming smile; he’s wearing jeans with a t-shirt and blazer, and it would be almost _sloppy_ for someone of his clearly ridiculous level of wealth, if not for the fact that the jacket sleeves are rolled up to show off his toned forearms. He’s sex on legs and Magnus is here to lie to him then _leave_.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Lightwood,” he says after a moment of silence that goes on for slightly too long. This, at least, is not a lie; it really is a pleasure to meet him, which is entirely unexpected. “Not fond of Alexander, I take it?” Alec raises an eyebrow, as though wondering if there’s a directory of Rich People somewhere that Magnus somehow has access to in order to find out people’s full names.

(He does. It’s called Wikipedia.)

“Nobody really calls me that,” he says with a shrug, and Magnus feels the motion in his own body because - and here’s a fun realisation - _they’re still holding hands_. Magnus releases Alec from their unnecessarily long handshake and misses the warmth of his broad palms almost immediately. If Magnus knows himself - and he does - he’s going to end up trying to get into Alec’s pants in the next five minutes, and he really shouldn’t be doing that; it would be incredibly unprofessional, for all that’s he’s certain it would be worth it.

“Well, Alexander,” he says as breezily as he’s able, waving a hand grandly towards the open doors of the van. “Would you like to see your painting? Or was this all a ruse so we could hold hands on your driveway?” In fairness to Magnus, he literally can’t turn off the flirting. He’s tried, and it just makes him feel bland and awful. Interestingly, Alec seems to go a little pink in response, although the eye roll is slightly more expected; people from old money in particular tend to be less than amused by Magnus’s entire personality. It’s funny how much disdain they have for previously destitute orphan immigrants, given how much they all love _Hamilton_.

“Let’s get it inside,” Alec says firmly, and moments later Magnus finds himself surrounded by several very large, helpful people who he _swears_ were nowhere near him mere seconds before.

“Efficient,” Magnus comments, which has Alec looking weirdly embarrassed.

“They’re just kind of like that,” he says with a jerky shrug, like he’s not _happy_ with the fact that he has a fleet of staff desperate to tend to his every need. Alec needs to stop being so endearing at every turn, or Magnus’s conscience might rear its ugly head at an inopportune moment.

It turns out Alec is very good at following instructions - which Magnus is absolutely _not_ going to think about for several weeks after this - because the room that will eventually house the painting is perfect. There are temperature controls and electronic shutters, and the lights have clearly all been specially chosen so as not to fade the paint prematurely.

Of course, none of this is _really_ necessary, given that the painting he’s handing over to Alec is younger than he is - but if it _were_ the real deal, Magnus would be more than satisfied that it was in the right hands.

Speaking of hands, Alec has snapped on some gloves and removed his blazer in order to help the staff with the final positioning of the piece and it’s… well, frankly, Magnus thinks it’s indecent. He’s surprised they do disposable gloves like that in large enough sizes. Also, Alec’s biceps are almost as criminal as literally everything Magnus has done today, and he’s having trouble thinking of anything but the clear, coiled strength in this man’s body as he watches him manoeuvre the painting into position.

“Thanks, guys,” Alec says, smiling kindly at the assembled staff members in what is nonetheless a clear dismissal. Once they’ve left, he turns to Magnus, pulling off the gloves and shoving them into his back pocket absentmindedly. “I’ll admit I don’t know as much about this as I should. How old is it?” He’s nodding at the painting but doesn’t take his eyes off Magnus.

“Mid-1800s,” Magnus says smoothly. “Oil on canvas, fairly standard for the time period. Not my favourite - I prefer my work a little older - but not everyone can own an original Caravaggio. A man can dream, however.” Magnus has actually handled _several_ original Caravaggios, but it’s not like he gets to keep them.

“You’re a really good liar,” Alec says admiringly, and it’s only because Magnus is a consummate professional that he doesn’t freeze up _immediately_. Alec is still smiling, and nothing about his stance has changed at all, but Magnus can’t help feeling a little caged-in.

“I’d thank you for the compliment,” he says slowly, raising an eyebrow and trying to look as unaffected as humanly possible, “but I’m afraid I’m not sure what you’re talking about. This really _isn’t_ my favourite painting, you know. It takes all sorts, Alexander.” Alec snorts and shoves his hands into his jeans pockets like they’re on an after-school special about art theft.

“Oh, c’mon Magnus-” The giddy wave of desire that passes through Magnus’s body just hearing Alec say his name is frankly embarrassing- “I know exactly what I’ve bought. It’s beautiful - really great work, whoever did this is clearly brilliant - but it’s not the original.” Magnus is trying to tamp down on his dramatic tendencies, but this has literally never happened to him before and he’s not entirely sure how to respond. Alec is looking at him with that same little smile, like they’re the only two people in on a very intimate, private joke; it’s untenable.

“Even if that were true - which I am of course outright _denying_ , just so we’re clear,” Magnus says, which has Alec’s smile fucking _widening_ for some reason, “I’m not sure how you’d know. You have confirmation from two independent sources - both of whom _you_ hired, by the way darling - that this is far from being a forgery.”

“Yeah,” Alec says with another of those blasé shrugs, “but Raj is an idiot.” Magnus snorts involuntarily at the assessment. “And since this is your operation, you’re hardly going to rat yourself out,” Alec continues, calm and sure, like he’s not some 20-something rich kid with a smart mouth threatening every atom of Magnus’s existence.

Magnus really wishes this wasn’t doing it for him.

“Well,” Magnus says, deciding the best option is just to pretend Alec is a lunatic and _leave,_ “this has been a delight but I’m afraid I have other clients to see. I remember the way out, there’s no need to escort me.” He turns to leave but Alec’s hand shoots out to grab his arm before he gets very far, and Magnus would _like_ to say it has him panicked and looking for the exits, but mostly it just has him thinking about the firm heat of Alec’s grip, and other ways in which it could be used in relation to Magnus’s body.

“Magnus,” Alec says again, sounding harried and apologetic, “I’m not accusing you of conning me. I conned _you.”_ Magnus _stares_ at him. Alec, obviously realising he now has a captive audience, hurries to explain himself.

“I hate my family name. I used to care about it but then - well, it doesn’t actually _matter_ , but I hate what it represents and how I got this money.” He’s saying everything in a rush, hand still wrapped firmly around Magnus’s wrist, like Magnus is going to leave when he’s clearly about to be handed some _incredibly_ juicy gossip. Honestly. “Don’t ask me how, but I found out about what you do - the charity stuff, that you don’t think anyone knows about? And I want to help. I have money, resources - what I paid for this stupid painting just so I could speak to you? It hasn’t even made a dent in what I have. If I can use this fucking _ridiculous_ legacy I’ve been handed to help other people, I _want to._ ”

Magnus continues to stare at him for a little while, but his heart is racing now for completely different reasons. Alexander Lightwood, unwilling heir and walking wet dream, is looking at him with such determination and brazen honesty that Magnus wants nothing more than to kiss him.

So he does.

Twisting his arm in Alec’s grip so he can wrap his fingers around Alec’s wrist, he pulls him in with surprising ease; for all that the guy’s tall and toned, he’s off-balance enough that Magnus is able to take full advantage. He reaches his free hand up to tangle his fingers in Alec’s hair, dragging their mouths together like he’s been wanting to since Alec first took his hand on the driveway. The noise Alec makes in the back of his throat melts very quickly from surprise to honest, open pleasure; his grip on Magnus’s arm relaxes, hand slipping away so he can frame Magnus’s face with strong, gentle fingers. Alec’s mouth is hot and careful against his, like he didn’t realise that everything about him was doing it for Magnus this _entire time,_ and is now having to rewrite his reactions accordingly.

Eventually, they need air, though Magnus isn’t happy about it.

“Is this part of the con?” Alec is breathless, face flushed and pupils blown wide. He looks delectable, and there’s not a single part of Magnus that doesn’t want him.

“Darling - this is brand new,” he says, voice hoarse. Then he pulls an incredibly willing Alec back in, because he _may_ have just found a rich person he doesn’t want to fuck over.

He certainly wants to do something similar though.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I absolutely love the fake dating trope. I would happily read it every day for the rest of my life and not get bored; it's the absolute tits. However, I wanted to do something different, and when I mentioned the trope name to my wife, she made a goddamn PUN about incorrectly dating objects/artefacts as part of a scam. I was hooked instantly. Magnus fake dates the painting. Deal with it.
> 
>  **Recommended listening:**  
>  Perfect Combination - Hael  
> (from whence I procured the title of this fic)  
> Hit and Run - LOLO  
> Trouble - Valerie Broussard


End file.
